The Man Who Sold the World
by alojzybanko
Summary: Regarding a distressed phone call from a friend about an estranged brother, Antonio finds himself at odds with an Italian junkie with a David Bowie obsession and a taste for classic literature.


_"Regarding a distressed phone call from a friend about an estranged brother, Antonio finds himself at odds with an Italian junkie with a David Bowie obsession and a taste for classic literature."_

**A/N: **This is my first fic. This chapter was kind of rushed, it was more of an introduction than anything. I suck when it comes to accents. I have no plans for this, I'm literally just going with the flow. If people enjoy it, then I'll be more than happy to continue it uwu

* * *

**FELICIANO**

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what, fratello?"

"Don't chew on your sleeves like that. It's annoying."

It's a bad habit. I should stop. But Lovino isn't one to talk about bad habits.

His apartment is bare. Almost everything has been sold, flogged for booze and drug money.  
That's it. I need to tell him.

"I can't loan you anymore money." I whisper.

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't speak. He stands up, his legs are shaking.  
He's lost weight. A lot of it.

He shuffles over to the window, peering through the blinds and out onto the street.

"Whose decision was that, Feli?" He murmurs, eyes not straying from the window.  
His fingers are twitching, inching his sleeves over his knuckles. He does that when he's anxious.

"Are you expecting someone, Lovino?" I find myself asking.

"I asked you a question first."

"Well, yes, but-"

"Answer it."

There's a sigh, but I'm not sure it's mine.

"Answer it." He repeats. He's almost whispering.

"It was a mutual decision between Ludwig and I." I tell him. My voice is shaking, threatening to break.

"Bullshit."

"Lovi, I swear-"

"Even if it was a 'mutual decision', Feli, it shouldn't have to be. What's that German bastard doing with his nose in your wallet?"  
I choose to stay quiet, wringing my hands over and over until Lovi eases himself away from the window.

"Ve, everything okay?" I pry, offering him a weak smile.

He shrugs, settling down on the floor opposite me. His bony knees are sticking out through the tears in his jeans, just like they've always done, except much more prominent now.

"Tip-top, Feli. Tip-top." He broods, before adding a sulky, "why are you even here, anyway? Dad die or something? Or are you just making sure I've not topped myself?"

"I was just in the neighbourhood, fratello. Do I need an excuse?"

"To be in this neighbourhood? Kind of. Unless you're a crack dealer now."  
I smile. It's small and watery, but it's enough to relax him.

"Papa was wondering how you are." I speak softly, "what should I tell him?"

For a moment, I see him return my smile. It's just a sad smirk, but with Romano, I've learnt to take what I can get.

"Sure, like he cares," Lovino murmurs, "just tell him I'm sober or something. Make something up, so the bastard won't worry."

"Okay." I nod. What's the use in arguing anyway?

"Was that all, Feli?"

"Fratello, you still haven't answered my question."

"What question?" He looks genuinely confused for a few seconds. "Oh. Yeah. Sure, I'm expecting someone."

"Your dealer?"

Lovi's eyes flash with a disgusting glint of disdain.

"Yeah," he says, clear and confident, "I'm waiting for my dealer. So what?"

I hate it when he's so honest. I always end up facing the gruesome, the harsh, and it's been like that since we were kids. We used to fight sometimes – he'd push me over, I'd scrape my knee, our parents would ask how it happened and Lovi would reply 'me.' He'd end up grounded, pouting, and I'd cry for his forgiveness.

He's a manipulating son of a bitch, but he's my brother. I'd never, never want him mad at me.

"But this whole money fiasco," he sighs, staring straight into my eyes, "You're not cutting me off yet, right?"

I don't answer, and that look in his eyes grows panicked.

"I mean, you've got the money I asked you for yesterday, right?"

"No, Lovi." I sigh, biting my lip. His eyes grow wide and frantic and that familiar feeling of guilt rises in my stomach.

His eyes flash again, first from shocked to angry to sad and almost desperate.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"I have- I have to put my foot down." My voice is shaking – I'm scrambling to find every ounce of confidence in my tone, but Lovino can see right through me. And he knows it.

Christ, does he know it.

"You mean Ludwig has to put his foot down." Lovi inches closer to me, close enough for me to feel his breath on my cheek.

"You think it's for my own good, right?" he hisses, "Well, it's not! The bastard has his own selfish reasons, Feliciano! He knows he won't be able to shag you if you're so preoccupied with your fucking junkie brother! Today, he's managing your money; tomorrow, he'll have you cut ties with me completely!"

"Lovino!"

"Well! Keep seeing him and tell me if I'm fucking wrong!" He yells, cheeks glowing.

I want to cry. I want to hit him, but I want to hug him.  
I want him to turn around, promise to live a clean life and maybe fix a few broken relationships along the way. I want those huge hazel eyes to smile again.

But I know they won't. If they won't smile for me, they won't smile for anyone.

After all, who else does he have but me?

Then there's a knock at the door.

"You should leave, Feli." He murmurs.

"Do you have enough money?" I find myself whispering, as he takes my arm and leads me towards the door. "I don't want you owing anything. I've read about these gang things-"

"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry about me."

And I'm pushed through the door, narrowly avoiding a very tall, very scary man in black.

"Sorry, Ivan," Lovi says softly, "He was just leaving."

Ivan looks down at me, raising an eyebrow, but doesn't say a word.

I make my way down the hall and I'm left with the feeling of two pairs of eyes boring into my back and Lovi's hushed voice: "You got the stuff?"

Now what do I do?

* * *

**ANTONIO**

For how many people would you run against an earthquake?  
Do you ever think about that?

I have a lot of friends, and I love them. They love me too.  
They make me happy, happier than I've ever been.

But there's not one that I'd run against an earthquake for.

"One medium half-caf, no foam, non-fat vanilla soy latte." the barista announces, placing my order in front of me.

"Gracias," I smile and she smiles back. I pick up my coffee and leave, stepping out into the rainy street.

It's refreshing, summer rain, though much too common. It's not that I mind though.

My phone buzzes in my pocket – a text from Francis, demanding to know where I was, more than likely. If so, it can wait.  
The streets are clearing as the rain gets heavier. The air gets stickier as the thunder nears.

Please let it storm, lord. Please.

It's getting late – 7:00. The streetlamps are turning on. I should've met Francis ten minutes ago, though no doubt he's scuttled off to take shelter somewhere. A lingerie store, perhaps.

I fumble in my pocket for a pack of smokes as I walk, avoiding my phone as best I can. I have no patience for Francis or Gilbert right now. I manage to wrap my fingers round a cigarette and bring it my to lips, igniting it with the lighter Gilbert got me for my birthday – a simple 20p capsule with the Prussian flag intricately painted on the side. I'd laughed at first, but it soon became one of my most prized possessions. It was very, very impressive – he is an artist after all.

There's a record store at the bottom of this street that's open late. Whenever I pass, they're always playing some old rock songs. It cheers me up sometimes. Maybe it'd be worth a look.

I can hear the song already. It's not one I recognise. It's got a funky, seventies kind of feel.

As I near the shop, I sneak a look inside the doorway. The owner's abandoned his post at the cash register. What was his name again? Alfred or something, right? Daft kind of guy, with glasses and a goofy grin. Even though I never buy anything, he's good to strike up a conversation with.

There's a guy standing a few feet away, leaning against the window.

"You got a light?" he asks and I jump, looking up from the doorway.

He looks very, very familiar – thick, messy hair, bags under hazel eyes, an awful complexion and holes in his jeans.

"What?"

He points to my cigarette. "You have a lighter, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"…can I use it?"

"Oh! Sure!" I reach into my pocket and give him my lighter.

"The Prussian flag." He notes, placing his cigarette between his teeth and flicking the lighter, "Any significance?"

"Not particularly. It was a gift."

"Ah." He murmurs, handing it back to me. He takes a drag of his cigarette, shoving his left hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "I love this song, you know."

This guy looks strange - familiar but shady. The last thing I want is to make conversation with him, but in an effort to be polite, I respond.

"Really? What song is it?"

By the expression on his face, you'd have thought I'd shot a dog.

"Seriously?"

I shrug. "Seriously."

"David Bowie," he says, with a tone of pride slipping over each of the words, "'Velvet Goldmine.'"

"Oh. Interesting."

"Yeah."

There's an awkward silence as the rain starts hitting heavy.

"I…I'm gonna go now…"

"Sure." He says, as if to grant me permission.

And then I'm gone. I look over my shoulder to see if he's following me but he's not, he's just standing there in the rain, listening to the song.

My phone buzzes again, to remind me about the earlier message. Francis will be pissed, but I don't think I care that much. I sigh and dig in my pocket for it. There's a message from an unknown number.

'Hi Antonio. I know it's been a long time but please call when you can, ok?'

Well, that could mean anything.

Should I call?

It's not like I've got anything better to do.  
I press the call contact button and it rings once, twice, three times.

"Ciao." The voice that picks up is instantly recognisable.

Though if it was who it sounded to be, the issue at hand must be serious.

"Feliciano?"

"Antonio! You got my message?"

"I did. It's been so long, mi hermano! ¿Qué pasa?"

There's a sigh on the other end of the line.

"I need a favour."

"Anything, Feli."

"You remember Lovino, don't you?"

"Lovino? Your brother, Lovino?"

Lovino…  
I haven't thought about Lovino in a long time.

The last time I saw him, he may well have been a baby; all chubby, rosy with thick dark curls and huge, curious eyes-

Fuck!

I gasp and spin around but the guy is already gone, left in his place is a half-lit cigarette, used and crushed.

"You're still there?"

"I think I just saw…" I trail off. The music's stopped too.

"Toni?"

"Never mind. What's going on with Lovi?" I ask, but I'm hardly paying any attention. I'm still looking at the other end of the street, searching silently.

"He's developed some…a few afflictions."

"¿Qué?"

"He's got a problem, Toni."

"What type of problem?"

This sounds suspicious.

On the other end of the line, I can hear Feli take in a deep breath.

"Heroin, mainly."

Like a reflex, my eyes flicker downwards so that I'm looking at the ground.

"Shit," I whisper, though it's drowned out by the sound of the blood rushing in my ears.

"Yeah, a-and I don't know what to do, Antonio. I used to lend him money but my friends are telling me not to, I want to get him help but I…" his words fade into thick sobs and I can hear someone mumbling in the background.

My heart goes out to Feliciano. He has such a clean conscience.

"Are you going to have an intervention?" I inquire, struggling to keep my voice firm.

"I don't know," he sniffs, "I just don't want him to hate me but- but he's so…alienated nowadays." I can hear him blowing his nose. "Antonio, are you free tomorrow? I think we should talk about this, and maybe…form a battle plan for an intervention."

"Of course. Do you still live at the same place?"

"Yeah," he whispers, "Grazie tante, Antonio."

"Take care."

He hangs up, and I'm left with an overwhelming feeling of…well, I'm not really sure.

Was that really Lovino I saw before?

Wait – I've got an idea.

I turn around and make my way back to the store, peering in the doorway once more.  
Alfred is there now, thumbing through a magazine.

"Alfred!" I call out and he looks up, flashing me a grin.

"Hey, dude! Toni! How's it going?" He gestures for me to come in. "Man, you're soaked!"

"It's raining."

"No shit. What can I do you for?"

I run a hand through my hair and sigh.

"Um…did you notice a guy here before? Standing outside? Dark, tired looking, big hoodie and ripped jeans?"

Alfred blinks. "You mean Lovino?"

"You know Lovino?"

"_You_ know Lovino? He works here, man. Stumbled in here a couple months ago with five Bowie records stashed under his arm, threw 'em down on the counter and asked to sell 'em. Shame, too – one of 'em was a first edition. Really rare."

"Oh." My mouth has run dry. "I used to babysit for him and his brother."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Must've been a little shit to look after, huh?"

I fake a small chuckle.

"Thanks Alfred."

"Sure, dude."

I turn around and make my way out of the shop. My phone vibrates in my pocket and, with a sigh, I reach for it and pick up the call.

"Hi, Francis."

"Mon dieu, where the hell are you? Not only have I had to wait in the rain for you, you've been ignoring my calls and I've had to turn down a coffee invitation!"

"Something came up-"

"Save it. I'm already home, I am not waiting for you any longer."

"Alright then. Bye Francis."

"No, wait!"

I hang up almost immediately.  
I can't deal with Francis right now, or Gilbert, or Lovino, or his stupid fucking heroin.  
I don't like change.

What do I do know?


End file.
